Killing Greyoll served another purpose: seizing her power. Now, an auxiliary method surfaced—
Using both blood and the Dragon Heart for double acceleration to push explosive power to its limit.
"Think of the Dragon Heart as an engine," Throne muttered, "and the Power of Blood as a combustion enhancer. Together, they unleash raw force."
As an engineering purist and a firm believer in brute strength, Throne didn't waste time on finesse. If the output was high enough, even a clumsy punch could turn flesh into pulp. The research path was clear; the next step was execution. He scratched his face, already feeling the weight of the challenge.
Adding a combustion enhancer to an engine sounded straightforward, but the Power of Blood was treacherous. The earlier experiment had proven that much. It was volatile, hard to control, and when pushed too far, it burned. Spontaneous combustion wasn't on his agenda. Worse, the double acceleration strained his body to its limits, bringing him back to an old dilemma.
Throne focused intensely, using his own body as the test subject, repeating the process again and again. He had to pinpoint the critical threshold before he could refine the technique.
"Plenty of time today," he muttered. "A hundred tests should do it."
Millicent sat nearby, knees hugged to her chest, watching Throne's profile with quiet intensity. In a short time, she realized how little she truly understood about her teacher. She'd thought him a genius with deep knowledge, but she hadn't expected such relentless effort. He didn't hesitate as he cut into his own flesh repeatedly. How ruthless. His drive to grow stronger rivals Alexander's.
I thought the Warrior Jar was ruthless enough.
His level of obsession far exceeded normal limits. No wonder Melina had shielded her from witnessing his last "surgery."
That must have been more excruciating than this. But the pain served a purpose. Without it, how could he have triumphed in the Battle of Sellia? How could he promise to cure her Scarlet Rot?
Trust came from strength, and strength from obsession—the obsession to grow stronger at any cost. Millicent winced as Throne downed flask after flask of crimson tears while burning his blood. She still had much to learn.
Throne didn't believe in luck or sudden bursts of hidden potential. He despised those protagonist tropes where desperation magically unlocked power. Minds and potential had limits, and relying on them was unreliable. Winning once or twice by chance was possible, but turning the tide every time? Ridiculous. Victory favored the prepared. He only acted when he was ready.
Like in Sellia—had he not acquired the primeval glintstone, he wouldn't have stayed to face certain death. He wasn't the hot-blooded hero type. He preferred to be the Boss. Enduring pain others couldn't, seizing every opportunity, cherishing every moment—silent accumulation led to explosive power that crushed everything.
Just like at this moment, without the knowledge he had accumulated and the insights gleaned from the primeval glintstone, how could he seek truth? Daylight faded, dusk crept in, and the autumn rain had ceased. Behind the giant rock, Throne clenched his fist. Fatigue marked his face, but his eyes burned bright.
"Seventy-three limit tests, fifteen preliminary experiments. I've finally figured out some key points."
He let out a long sigh of relief. Fortunately, he had slept soundly last night and was in a good mental state today. He stretched his stiff joints and looked at his hands, which were covered in scars. The harvest was good.
He had a preliminary understanding of the operating principles, but the actual application was still clumsy. Fortunately, he had a deeper understanding of the Power of Blood itself. Throne's thinking was very rigorous. Becoming stronger was never something that hot bloodedness could solve; it required a scientist's attitude and meticulous logic.
"Teacher, did you succeed?"
Millicent, who had been dozing, looked up.
"I'm still far from it. The road to becoming stronger cannot be rushed. Without practice, there is no utility; without theory, there is no foundation. It's just like practicing sword techniques: learn the forms first, then talk about practical application."
"Mm, Alexander said the same thing."
"That's because I taught it to him. That fellow only knows how to charge ahead recklessly. The long road to becoming stronger cannot rely solely on luck and charging like a bull." Throne laughed. The Warrior Jar was simple enough, but what to swallow and in what order was also a kind of science.
"Alright, let me see what it's doing."
Throne stopped the battlefield teaching and quietly peeked out.
He saw the flying dragon was still there. It was seriously injured; the wound on its belly clearly looked like it had been made by a greatsword. Bernahl's doing? As expected, flying dragons have tenacious vitality. As long as a flying dragon wasn't killed in one hit, it could flap its wings and escape. Not everyone could briefly stay airborne like Throne.
"I've been monitoring it and noticed some issues," Millicent suddenly said. "Tell me?"
Millicent cleared her throat and said seriously, "It's heavily injured but hasn't rushed to rest. Instead, it's guarding the surroundings and occasionally letting out a roar, as if it's transmitting some kind of information. This doesn't seem like a lone flying dragon."
Throne was stunned for a moment, then praised, "Good observation, and your thinking is very meticulous." Millicent smiled faintly upon hearing the praise, clearly very happy. If you were a bit more experienced and your mind were a bit more flexible, you might become my most prized disciple. Throne looked at the girl with satisfaction.
Millicent was very compatible with him, but on second thought, he let it go. Everyone's path is different; it's impossible to copy and paste.
"But Teacher, I'm just curious why no other flying dragons have come by this time?"
"No rush, they're already here."
Throne looked up. Two more small black dots appeared in the sky, this time coming from the south.
Clearly, with the mobility of flying dragons, it wasn't hard for them to regroup. It was just like infantry attacking cavalry; they could often break the enemy, but not completely annihilate them. Roar—
The flying dragon lying on the ground looked up and let out a roar toward the sky. Throne didn't understand the language of flying dragons, but he could hear the joy in it.
The two flying dragons in the sky also called out a few times but didn't land, spreading their wings and continuing north.
"Oho, so it's a sentry."
Throne felt he had underestimated the organization of the flying dragons; they were intelligent high-level creatures after all.
"What do we do now? Should we notify Sister Melina and the others?"
"No rush. There's a situation here, but the main target hasn't been confirmed yet."
Throne remained steady. He had arranged things very cleverly this time; even if Greyoll was in the east, it wouldn't matter. No matter how useless that stinky dragon was, protecting Melina and helping her escape would be no problem. He carefully surveyed the surroundings.
The light flickered. He moved low and fast, keeping his distance. Throne had scouted ahead—anything within five hundred meters would trigger detection. The spot he'd picked was good. He pressed his back against the tree bark, exhaling through his teeth. A wounded drake like this wouldn't survive a single clean hit.
Drakes weren't blind. Their nostrils flared at the scent of blood. If it caught the copper-tang of Greyoll's wounds, the beast would bolt straight for the Central Sea. Game over. Greyoll could rot for all he cared, but these drakes had to stay. Lansseax couldn't handle this alone. His fingers twitched toward his sword.
"I could draw it away."
Millicent read his intent like a battlefield map. Past the ridge, ten klicks of scrubland before the cliffs. Whatever the drakes were scheming, the answer waited there. She shook her head.
"Suicide."